


in violent times, you shouldn't have to sell your soul

by asphaltworld



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Eddie Comes Back, M/M, Magic, Mostly Canon Compliant, Possession, Resurrection, temporary ghost eddie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21802930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asphaltworld/pseuds/asphaltworld
Summary: They’re all still in Derry, can you believe it? Richie can’t.But Mike has a scheme to bring Eddie back, and he can't refuse it.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from shout by tears for fears. i saw them live one time and they were very old

_ “We gotta get him out of here, we can’t fucking leave him here. I’m not gonna, we can’t let him die here,” Richie’s sobbing. Clinging. _

_ The ones left alive won’t let him be. The slimy water’s rising, the heavy crushing rocks falling until he can’t think anymore. They ignore his screaming to tug him back out of the cavern toward life and light. _

Richie’s awake after that, against his best efforts. 

He thinks he might throw up again. 

\---

They’re all still in Derry, can you believe it? Richie can’t. He knows that there are loose ends to tie up, respects to pay, maybe even non-supernatural things they may have liked about growing up here that they can see now without screaming terror. Nostalgia’s pretty powerful, he’s heard from advertising execs and the business half of Hollywood. His parents weren’t half bad, not compared to what Eddie and Bev were working with. And they stayed alive almost until he hit forty, which again, is not too bad. So it’s not like he should be the one complaining about this little delay keeping him from the big, empty expanse that makes up the rest of his life. 

But the fucking town itself feels evil and claustrophobic, even without a child-eating alien taking control of the sewers. What did It do before the humans of Derry build a convenient fucking subway system for him to terrorize their youth? Like a silver fucking platter. Like one of those huge soda stream machines in every fast food restaurant. Richie could probably come up with more food comparisons, if he wanted to. 

It’s tainted. Every hangout space, all the old mom and pop food joints, the sight of the skyline, all make him think of Eddie, and that’s not something he can afford right now. Well, Eddie, and the endless parade of fag-bashers jockeying for Bowers’ old role. His mind is screaming at him to go, go, go, leave this place like he did when he was eighteen. 

The older he got, the weirder it was that he didn’t have a girlfriend. There were a couple girls who liked his rants, who would wait by his locker and laugh at his jokes. Some of them were nice. Bill grew up to be more of a ladies’ man, short stature be damned, and he was always like, “Richie, that girl’s all over you. She seems nice. Look, she likes you even though you dress the same as you did when you were 12. Why don’t you like her?” He thought Richie needed a little extra push.

It was because Henry Bowers was right about him, even if he was wrong about Bill, and Stan, and Mike, and Ben, and probably even Eddie. The underparented, overprivileged sons of the police force called _ everybody _ a fucking fag or a queer or some combination of the two, but they were wrong most of the time. 

Cocksucker. One of the first times Richie went to his knees for someone, a man, he felt strong hands in his hair and it was exciting but he only felt safe and turned on for like one minute before the guy dropped it on him, _ you’re my little cocksucker. _ It would have been funny, someone calling his 6’2” ass _ little _, if it didn’t make him want to be dead in a ditch already. 

Who decided it was cool and sexy to randomly degrade your hookups, who by the way are doing you a huge fucking favor? Richie shot up so fast, maybe skinning the dick with his teeth a little, went “Nu-uh, thank you for your service, man, but do _ not _call me a cocksucker,” and left the party entirely. He doesn’t even remember what the guy said as he was leaving. Probably nothing nice.

Richie’s feeling really, obviously gay today, and scraped raw. Feeling gay in Derry is not a fun thing. It makes him paranoid. He’s sticking with the losers, hovering behind them as they scheme. They’re trying to figure out what to do about Eddie. 

\---

The losers end up looking through his stuff, led by Richie. It still feels like an invasion of privacy, because in his head, Richie can only think of him as _ missing _. 

They find this tiny little bag of white power in Eddie’s suit jacket. God knows why he brought a suit to Derry. 

“Oh, shit,” Bill says. “Is that...” Of course it fucking is. Wall Street bros are all the same. 

“I mean, he always loved his medicine,” Richie says. No one laughs, not even him. 

“I’ll try it,” Richie says. “Y’know. So we aren’t making assumptions. Maybe Claratin works even better when you snort it.” 

“Don’t,” says Mike. “What if it’s cut with something?”

They all turn to look at him.

“Don’t look at me like that. Derry has internet access, you know. Libraries offer free testing strips, in some states. Not in Derry, but. You have to stay informed to have this job.” 

“This bag’s not totally full. And Eddie got here in one piece. So it’s probably fine. You think he of all people is gonna buy without knowing where it came from?”

Richie wishes he could have seen it. Eddie probably would have broken the sound barrier and become totally incomprehensible. The thought is choking him up, which is embarrassing and tacky even for him. 

“Don’t touch it,” Mike says. And his word is final, Richie guesses. 

People really surprise you all the time. Eddie’s obsession with death and disease and hygiene, apparently, did not extend to a fear of drugs and alcohol. In LA, Richie’s met plenty of people who force him to order something gross at a raw vegan restaurant and then invite him into the bathroom to do a line of coke as if it’s a fancy after-meal mint. Contradictions abound.

\---

Richie spends more time at the Neibolt house after that. His friends tried to drag him away, told him he was being fucking weird. He couldn’t stop himself from going back and collapsing ungracefully onto the plain grassy lot that used to be the center of so much evil in the town. At least half of the evil, maybe a little more. He doesn’t want to sell small-town minds short on their capacity for cruelty. 

Now, he’s sitting right there, picking weeds and wildflowers, staring at the clouds, looking down at Eddie’s grave. The house, Pennywise, all this is like a bad dream, except it took Eddie with it. His body is gone, like it never existed. Instead, there’s a smooth, unblemished lawn. 

It’s a fucking shame that the smoothing-over didn’t do anything about his wife. They all get calls from Myra, frantic, bulldozing voicemails that have no real start or end. No one is sure how she got their numbers. Eddie must have written them down for her, or left them in his own notes at home after Mike called. There’s no body, nothing to tell her, and Richie’s sure not going to be the one to handle her. Leave it to someone with social skills, like Ben, or Bev. Richie would feel sorry for her if he wasn’t so busy feeling sorry for himself. He feels like the last good in his life just slipped away, buried under that fucking house. 

He knows, on some level, that it’s ridiculous. He went years without even knowing Eddie existed. Ostensibly, he has “other things in his life that matter.” That’s what his manager said in a voicemail when Richie stopped taking his calls. And look how responsible of him, still checking voicemails even though he doesn’t give a shit what they have to say. 

He leaves the phone behind, this time. 

\---

Bill and Mike had some weirdo bonding moment and Bill’s staying at his place now. The rest of them are the Derry Inn’s best customers, which means that their rooms are an absolute last priority and half the time Richie requests more towels, he’s completely ignored. He’s had to start doing his own laundry in the badly-lit nightmare basement. Even at the best of times, that’s not really in his skillset. 

After his regularly scheduled moping at the epicenter of his worst traumas, he gets back to the inn to find Bev looking really annoyed in the lobby. Ben’s sitting there with her, silent and solemn-faced.

“Where the fuck have you been, Richie? Mike has something for us. We have to get over there.”

“Sure,” Richie says. “Somebody has to drive me, though.” Code for: I’m drunk as fuck because I’m sad as fuck, and no one can force me to be reponsible. 

Bev rolls her eyes. “Get in the car with us.” 

Richie doesn’t miss his phone and the weight of the obligations it represented. He does wish he could inflict his taste in music on the two insufferably, tenderly in love people he’s chosen to share a car with. 

\---

Mike’s holding another huge, thick book. They’re gathered around him at the wooden desks in the library. It’s a lot less dusty than last time, after the thorough scrubbing they gave it to remove any trace of Bowers. It still gives Richie the same sinking feeling as being assigned a book report, though. 

“So what’s the plan for tonight? Another bedtime story?” Richie says.

“You guys know I’ve done a lot of research,” Mike says. _ There he goes, bragging again, _Richie almost says. 

“I wish I knew what to do about Eddie. I’ve been taking a look, and I think that we have a shot at one of these.”

Bill looks fucking aghast. “Mike, what? This is insane. The _ first _ ritual didn’t work.”

And Richie’s starting to kind of resent Bill. 

Mike looks straight at him. “I knew it might not work, because it failed before. This one? There’s cases all throughout the 1800s of successful resurrections.”

“Have you read The Monkey’s Paw? Pet Sematery? Resurrection never works out for stuff like this,” Bill’s arguing. “This place is fucked. Sour ground, remember?” 

“Those books aren’t real life, Bill,” Richie says. “What’s the worst that can happen? A zombie Eddie? I feel like I could take that. Maybe he would make a fun pet.” He hates trivializing Eddie’s death like this but doesn’t know what else to do. After that display in the house and the quarry he’s wrung out all his ability for emotional vulnerability.

“Five foot eight of pure rage, though? You could barely handle him when he was a normal white collar worker,” Beverly’s saying.

Richie hates the past tense even more than he hates Bill.

“Look, let’s do this. Get it over with, let it fail or not so we can wash our hands of Derry.” 

“Now you’re all in, huh?” Bill looks at him. “No fear. Total chill.”

“Yeah, man. This is the first time I get to choose my own involvement in magic and beyond-the-veil shit instead of having it thrust upon me.”

“You know,” Ben says, thoughtful as ever, “I’ve seen some really weird shit over the years.” He hurries on before Richie can say something stupid. “When I was first starting out, I spent a lot of time in old houses. Figuring out when we were gonna tear them down, or if we were going to put in the work to renovate them, if it was worth it.” 

Mike’s nodding vigorously. 

“There’s a lot of weird shit that happens when you disrupt old things. Trust me on that.”

“Like what? You’re not gonna give us any gory details?” Beverly asks. 

“Just the usual. I’ve seen faces in windows, y’know? Heard doors slamming shut, a few times somebody grabbed my shoulder in an empty room. People screaming in empty houses? I’m not the writer here, and you’ve heard all these things before.” Ben shrugs. “You get the picture. I’m saying, I think Mike is right, for whatever it’s worth.”

Mike looks so grateful someone actually gets where he’s coming from the time. He might not need to beg his ungrateful friends to help him do some weird witchcraft shit anymore. 

“C’mon, Bill. And if you don’t believe, what’s the worst that could happen?” Ben coaxes. 

“This is the only way losers like us can properly bond,” Richie adds. 

Bill sighs, but Richie can see him changing his mind. “Yeah, okay. Let’s do it.” 

“Yes! We have Big Bill’s blessing,” Richie cheers. Kind of sarcastically. Because they’re adults now, and adults don’t need leaders. 

\---

They’re not going to do it at the empty lot that used to be Niebolt. That sounds like bad vibes, and that’s one thing they all agree on. No, they’re going to do it on the roof of the library, where they’re closer to the stars than ever. Richie gets another ride with Ben and Bev on the night of, and things are already laid out by the time they get there. 

The place is really dark, the kind of dark you only get in small towns without stadium lighting in every parking lot. Los Angeles is never dark like this, is instead in a perpetual twilight. It’s almost midnight and they have candles burning. There are bowls of herbs in the middle that Mike points out as sage, dogwood, dried aster. 

“So spooky. Can I call you Mulder?” Richie asks Mike. Mike ignores him. They’ve discussed the gameplan already, but Mike wants everything to go right so he makes them listen again.

“We have to join hands, make a circle, and then focus really hard for as long as it takes those plants to burn. I have Eddie’s wallet here. And that bag of powder, whatever it is. I’m gonna speak, and you’re going to listen. If you want this to work,” he adds. 

They get in a circle.

“Okay. Now grab a pillow. Sit down, get comfortable,” Mike says. “Then I’ll light the stuff in the center and we’ll all join hands.”

They all sit. Richie wipes his stupid palms on his jeans before offering them to the people on either side of him. They grip each other, steady and grounding. 

Mike starts to talk, but it’s all gibberish to Richie. He can’t make it out. He wonders idly what language this is in, whose guidebook they’re taking from. But he stops his mind from wandering too far. He needs to listen. Empty mind, open mind. Mike’s the most important thing right now. His words have a cadence to them, a poetic rhythm that’s sooo hypnotic and even though Richie’s focusing, the words slip through his head, totally in one ear and out the other. It would be more fucking confusing if he wasn’t being distracted by his body, feeling flushed and submerged in some kind of carbonated beverage. He’s feeling fizzy all over, in an almost pleasant way that turns into nausea pretty quickly. 

“Oh god, I really feel fucking sick,” Richie says. His hands go limp, but the others squeeze them hard. Does he have cottonmouth? It feels a lot like cottonmouth. He tries to remember the symptoms of an allergic reaction. Eddie’s surely told him a million times. 

“Don’t let go,” Bev says. “Stay right where you are. I can feel it now.” 

Richie’s vision is blurring, even more than usual, and the candles form one huge flame. He feels hot, with Bev on one side and Mike on the other. This is probably what Bev is talking about. 

“I think your ah, collective power is really fucking with me,” Richie says. “My poor husk of a self isn’t used--” 

He has to shut up, has to shut his fucking mouth so he doesn’t spew onto himself in front of everybody. He won’t let go, though, not when shit is acting this crazy. He’s gonna listen to Bev for once. 

“Richie, just breathe,” Ben is saying. Mike’s still talking, sticking to the script even though Richie’s going off the rails as usual. 

Mike hums one long note and it feels like an ending. 

Soon after, the flames stop spinning. Richie loses the horrible sense of deja vu that he suspects is from the deadlights. 

The pressure that had been building in Richie’s head is all suddenly released, and he feels better but also it’s making him really dizzy. He leans back onto the floor.

“So now what?” Bill says. Impatient as always. Richie would not have pegged him for the biggest skeptic of the bunch, but it looks like that’s how things turned out. Writing horror probably does that. He’s used to being in control of the scene, now. 

“Relax for one fucking second,” Bev says, pulling out her cigarettes in an impossibly cool and fluid movement. Richie bums one wordlessly, stretching out his hands like, _ gimme. _He doesn’t usually smoke, but hell, he may as well try to balance himself out with the widest variety of chemicals available to him. 

“This is worse than coming down from acid, in case you were wondering,” Richie says. He takes his glasses off so he doesn’t have to look at any of their fucking faces. They’re already broken and completely saturated with bad memories about the sewer and the deadlights and maybe having part of his soul sucked out by a hungry demonic clown.

Bev snorts. 

She says, “Okay, so what should we do while we wait?” _ While we wait _ is maybe the vaguest euphemism ever. While we wait... for the body of our deceased loved one to spontaneously reappear somewhere within city limits. Or something, who knows? We’re just _ waiting. _

“Let’s go over to Niebolt,” Richie says. 

They pile into their cars and head over. Ben almost gets lost on the way over, which is kind of weird. Now that the place is empty and looks normal, it’s easy to slide right past it. But Richie’s spent so much time marinating there that he’s like, “Ben you fuck, you missed the turn” and they get back on track pretty quickly.

They’re the first ones there, but it’s easy and immediate to tell that nothing has changed in the spot. The ground is still mysteriously well-tended and lushly green. Eddie’s not climbing out of a crack in the soil or anything. Richie can’t believe he let himself picture that happening. 

His stomach clenches again with disappointment. 

\---

Nothing does happen.

For the next few days they’re packing up and winding down even though no one wants to, because it’s admitting defeat. It’s even harder after the adrenaline rush of the days spent sitting with a sudden rush of rancid memories. 

They’re lingering in the city like it’s a party that’s way past its prime. Dead balloons on the ground, punch bowl more ice than booze. Mysterious stains on the rug and the only snacks left are raw broccoli and ranch dressing. That’s Derry to a T. 

Speaking of broccoli, though. Richie’s weirdly craving something green. It’s _ weird _ because whenever he’s had his heart broken in the past, and not even by death and intergalactic evil, he’s dived headfirst into potatoes, cheese, processed meat. 

“Heartbroken” barely covers how he feels now, it’s more like a grueling emptiness that he refuses to fully inhabit. The hollow, ashy shell of a building. This is why he doesn’t write his own material, he thinks. Jesus. Those teen viewings of Days of Our Lives really did a number on him. 

He used to skip school and stay home getting high and watching TV, writing down jokes. When his dad got home his voice would be wrecked enough that he could pass for sick, and old Went’s sense of smell was completely obliterated by cigarettes. He could cover up the weed with body spray and a couple cigarettes. It was a great system. When Eddie tried to come over, on those days, he’d cough and bitch about it until Richie agreed to leave the house with him and go somewhere that didn’t reek of burning toxins. 

Richie would still be stoned and pliant, way more transparently eager to make Eddie happy than usual, by maybe gushing too long about how smart he is or how much he deserves out of life. Richie’s pretty willing to bet that despite his bitching, Eddie liked those days too, when Richie had the sharp edges sanded off of him. 

Some days the others would show up, too, and Bev would complain that Richie was holding out on her, while Stan and Ben and Mike joined Eddie in getting all D.A.R.E. about it. Bill acted like he didn’t like weed, but he’d smoke with Richie sometimes. 

The memory makes him smile. Childhood wasn’t perfect, but he was a lot easier to please at the time.

\---

The farewell dinner is at some diner that time forgot. The seats and the floors are yellowing vinyl and the tables are worn down. There’s an honest to god jukebox in the corner, red and shiny. It plays actual records. Richie bolts over to it immediately and sets up a queue of Johnny Cash and James Brown, and whatever dark horses he finds, like the lone Metallica song. 

“The grill, I bet, is seasoned to perfection,” Mike says. It’s kind of crazy there’s a restaurant left in town he hasn’t already been to.

They order greasy hangover food, mostly, except Richie keeps it clean with a turkey club sandwich. Nothing fried on his plate this time. 

Halfway through dinner, Bill shakes hands with a fan who recognized him from across the room. She’s as gracious as it’s possible to be for someone interrupting a meal. Richie still hasn’t been recognized, which he feels kind of grateful for. It could be the switch to contacts. He doesn’t have his huge trademark nerd-glasses at the moment because they’re broken as shit and bloodied. 

After shaking hands, though, Bill returns to his burger like it’s no big deal. Richie’s skin is crawling with disgust and he tries to bite his lip and like, shut up for once but it comes out anyway:

“You need some hand sanitizer, Billy?” he asks. 

Bill looks at him funny. “I think I’m good.” Good, because Richie doesn’t have any.

“I mean, Jesus, do you know the sheer number and breadth of the germs you can find on the human hand?” Richie continues. “Ever heard of Staphylococcus? Way more common than you’d think.”

The table goes quiet, because Richie sounds genuinely pissed. He’s not doing a bit, he’s wholeheartedly lecturing on public health. 

“That was kind of creepy,” Bev says. “You sounded like...” She can’t say it. But there’s nodding among Mike and Ben. 

“You ate a Dorito off the floor earlier today,” Ben reminds him. 

“Oh, yeah, I did.” He grins. He was the one who dropped it, it wasn’t just a floor Dorito of uncertain origin. “My point still stands, though. Floor germs and hand germs? Totally different.” Jesus, he better not be ruining their last moments together. “I’m just trying to keep Bill out of trouble.” 

Bill nods. “That never works out, but thank you.” 

He’s never one to fuss over goodbyes, and is typically a major fan of the Irish exit, but Richie can’t believe they’ll be eating hamburgers in this hellhole one minute, and moving on with their lives in the next. Everything feels unfinished. 

They all leave anyway, though, even Richie.

Richie goes home to Los Angeles.

\---

He’s driving when he finds himself screaming at the guy to the left of him, on this narrow fucking stretch of the 110 that was built when people still rode carriages, all in one lane or something, and definitely doesn’t leave room for shitty SUV crossover type vehicles. 

“Keep it moving, fucker!” he shouts, windows rolled down. It’s about seventy five in Los Angeles that fine afternoon, so _ fucker _has his windows all rolled up. Dude looks over anyway, though, because he’s just that loud, and Richie sees a crease between his eyebrows. 

It’s kind of funny, because Richie doesn’t lash out like that. He doesn’t scream at strangers on the freeway, because in Los Angeles, that’s just asking for a heart attack. He would spend his entire life screaming, if he did this kind of thing. But he doesn’t. It just isn’t his style. 

Maybe it should be? It’s weirdly fulfilling. 

He picks up a new phone and spends an hour trying to get them to set it up with his old number. Richie can be pretty persuasive, when he needs to be, but his charm falls flat when he’s talking to the employees at his service provider. The whole thing takes up almost the entire afternoon, but he’s due to meet his manager later. 

When he’s sitting in his car in the parking lot outside, Richie feels like a kid waiting in the principal’s office. Hell, he’s been that kid dozens of times. He already knows it: Adam is going to be fucking upset. Richie takes his sweet time getting down from the car and to their table, but Adam’s not there yet.

“Hey, man,” he says when Adam sits down across from him. There’s no warm address from his manager. He just jumps right in. 

“We have to reschedule your fall tour, huh?” says Adam.

“Looks that way. I’m so sorry, there was this family emergency--”

“I thought you weren’t close to them.”

“Jesus, they’re still family. Anyway, it’s over, I guess. So. Look, I can do whatever you need me to do, now.” He mimes a puppet dance. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Richie, this looks really bad on you, you know? I’m not saying you can’t recover, but this shit makes you A, look unreliable, and B, look like you’ve got some insane personal problems. Were you in rehab, or in a hospital, or shooting up in a flophouse in Maine?”

“It really was an emergency. My oldest friend died and I saw a bunch of people I haven’t seen since I was a kid. It was kind of a one-time deal thing, don’t worry.” 

Adam either doesn’t notice he’s being snippy or doesn’t care. “Okay! Well, if you’re sure about that, we can start planning. Winter’s good, we can take you to the east coast and maybe western Europe...”

“Yeah, yeah, I am up for whatever,” says Richie, who has already mentally moved on so far he’s on another goddamn planet. Adam’s making notes in his little planner and showing Richie a list of cities to hit. Richie nods. 

“Hey, one more thing,” Adam says, as they’re winding down. “What happened to your glasses? You should get another pair.”

“What?”

“It’s part of your whole thing, y’know. They work with the look, like, a little creepy but the girls who go to your sets still might think about sleeping with you. Your haircut’s part of it, too.” 

“Great,” Richie says through gritted teeth. “Yeah, that’s me all over. Thank you. For noticing.” 

\---

Richie is at home, going over bits for his routine. It’s still not his own work. He doesn’t know what that would look like these days. But shit, a mountain isn’t built in a day. He needs this cash. 

In between time spent hunched over at his desk, he’s buying salad from Whole Foods and Tender Greens and trying the “juice shots” his favorite coffee place has started selling. They come in little containers that bear a significant resemblance to pill bottles, with names like Wellness Boost and Vitality. They’re bottled locally in BPA-free plastic. The displays scream out in bright colors, and Ricihie’s drawn to them the way he would beg his mom for the most colorful cereal box in the grocery store. Something about the tiny package is so deeply alluring. 

Adam forwards him a flyer about a yoga class, and he actually considers going. He doesn’t know what to do with the ample free time his work schedule leaves him with. 

Richie thinks about starting a clothing line, during one night spent in total despair. He gets as far as drafting a logo, not that he can draw but he can hire someone to bring the concept to life. Trash... coming out a mouth? It looks pretty gross, actually. He wonders if his tendency toward nervous puking was part of why people ever called him that. At that point he has to screw up the paper and throw it away. It’s stupid. 

\---

His old friend Dan wants to meet him for dinner and drinks and Richie finds himself suggesting Cafe Gratitude.

“You a vegan now?” Dan asks immediately. Wary.

“What? No.”

“Guys disappear for a week, come back looking five years older, and they’re vegan all of a sudden. You fell off the face of the earth for almost a month, you know.” 

“I’m not a vegan. I just don’t feel like dying at 50. Christ.”

Dan suggests a middle ground. Gruff as he is, he’s not unreasonable. Maybe they should slow down. They’re firmly into middle age now. Sure, okay. He’s still not ordering a dish called, “I Am Gorgeous.” The place doesn’t even serve alcohol.

They’re eating at Pacific Grill when Dan finally asks, “So what the fuck was up with you last month?” Richie hasn’t had to actually tell anyone the bullshit excuses he’s come up with yet. And anyway, Dan’s a friend. 

“My friend died, that’s why I was gone,” Richie says. A half truth.

“Oh, so is that why you’re cleaning your act up? God, what’d he die of?” 

“It wasn’t natural causes. It was, uh-- freak accident.” He nods his head, to really drive home how true and serious this is. It hits him a second later that it _ is _ true, Eddie _ is _ dead, idiot. 

“Shit.” Dan’s silent for a minute. “That must be rough. I’m sorry.”

“It really shook me up,” Richie admits, like a fucking sap. 

“So is that why you’re on a health kick?” Dan asks, as casually as possible. 

“I’m not on a health kick,” Richie says. 

“Then why did you order a green bowl?” Dan asks. The waiter is bringing their stuff over. Sure enough, there’s an order of tacos and a bowl heaping with vegetables.

“Oh shit, I completely do not remember ordering that.” 

“Grief makes you do crazy stuff, I guess,” Dan says, drizzling hot sauce over his plate. 

“I guess. Man, I don't wanna eat this,” Richie says, and he’s reaching for the hot sauce, the dressing, the salt. It tastes okay, in the end. 

They end up at this dive bar, Coronado’s, in Downtown LA. It’s one of the few establishments in the area that has been around longer than they have. They’re both transplants, of course, but long-term, career ones.

Richie grips his Manhattan like a lifeline. And the name, of course, sends a pulse through him. _ Eddie. _ He never got a chance to tell them what part of New York he was living in, or to bitch about the many things that probably annoyed him there. They checked his address on his ID. The bougie bastard lived in Manhattan, which strikes Richie as a bizarre choice for a couple of hypochondriacs. Why not move somewhere like... well, like Derry? 

A couple people stare at them a little too long, but no one approaches either of them. Richie has a new haircut and is still rocking the contacts, to spite Adam, so he’s throwing people off. After a few hours and as many drinks, Dan’s ready to go home, because he’s old and a family man. He wants to make sure Richie gets home, too.

“Take an uber home, dipshit,” Dan tells him. “You already disappeared for exactly the amount of time it takes to have a breakdown. Don’t get a fuckin DUI on top of that.” 

“Yeah, okay, okay,” Richie says. 

Dan’s like, “I don’t have to babysit you, do I?” He’s joking, mostly, but there’s real worry in his eyes.

“No, no. Get home to your wife, you big adult man.”

Richie uses the hem of his shirt to open the Uber door. He wonders dimly how many people have sat on the seats since they were last cleaned. Whatever it is, it’s not enough to stop him from getting in.

He’s still a little drunk, and unnerved from his reintroduction to LA socializing. He feels like maybe he’s losing his mind. There’s too much going on inside his head, and it’s getting claustrophobic in there. 

Does Dan even know he’s gay? He honestly can’t remember.

Probably not.

\---

Bill lives in LA too, most of the time. He’s in town this week. Richie knows this because, ever dutiful, Bill texts him, _ Hey man wanna get together? I’m here for the week _

They make plans for lunch together. Their relationship isn’t important enough for dinner, because there’s no money resting on it, just plain old friendship. 

“It feels almost like I’m not in control, sometimes,” Richie admits after a couple of beers make him feel more at home in this very Bill-style restaurant. 

And Bill goes, “I hear that, man. My forties are hitting pretty hard.”

“Sometimes I think there’s somebody in my apartment,” Richie tells him.

Bill stares. “We killed It.”

“I’m not worried about It. Have you ever read those stories, those urban legends about fucking... homeless people squatting in your apartment when you’re not there? I’m worried it’s something like that.” He laughs, unevenly. “I was gone for a while, so.”

“I have never heard of that,” Bill says slowly. “But honestly? Sounds like a great story. Tell me more. And shit, I’m gone more weeks out of the year than you. This is something I should know about. For safety reasons.” 

They go over Richie’s favorite urban legends, and Bill eats it all up. There’s the classics that Richie told him back in the day, but he’s collected way more since then. He has a whole book on them, one of the few books he actually keeps in his apartment. 

“Those punchy endings are like... blowing my mind,” Bill says. “I gotta take notes on those.”

“Every screenwriter tells me endings are the hardest part of writing,” Richie agrees absently.

“Yeah? How would _ they _know?” Bill laughs. “Get it, Richie, ‘cause--”

“Yeah, I get it. Novels are true art and screenplays are _ shit _. Up top!” They both cackle. 

\---

“So, what do you do when I don’t see you?” Bill says, a few days later. “I haven’t heard much about you professionally. Are you taking a break?” Jesus, straight to the meat.

“Uh, yeah, I have to rebook the shows I cancelled to go deal with _ the circus being back in town _,” Richie winks in a way he knows is obnoxious. “And from there, well, we’ll figure it out. When I get a new script sent to me or something.”

“Okay, so your schedule is pretty wide open, right?”

“Kind of. Why?”

“Have you thought about, like. Talking to someone?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean therapy.” 

“Okay, Bill, for what?” Richie tilts his head. Looks at him. 

Bill actually laughs. “Seriously? Christ, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Just. Start somewhere.”

“This sudden risk-aversion? The germaphobia? It’s not you, Rich. It’s like a whole other set of neuroses. You have enough shit of your own.” Bill is being delicate here, which is something Richie’s not used to getting from anyone.

“Like what? I’m gonna make you say it.”

“We’ve all been through a lot. Look, I see one. Did you know? Does that make you feel any better?”

“Not really. You’re a pretty fucked up guy, Bill. I read the ending of Attic Room.” Richie didn’t, but he knows Bill’s insecure about it. 

He’s also generous, because he ignores that pathetic jab and says, “Please, Richie. Deal with this before it gets worse.”

“It is not that serious, but okay.” He keeps his face as blank as he can. “You have any recommendations?” 

Bill smiles and whips out his phone. “Okay, I have a couple of lists you might wanna see.” He was obviously waiting for this moment all through lunch. 

One of Bill’s lists is for LGBT friendly-therapists in the LA area, which was kind of a shock to Richie. He’s not gonna forget an entire childhood of gay angst, not again. But it’s hard to think of himself that way, even though there’s no other word for it. 

He’s never been oppressed for being gay, he thinks. Or at least not as an adult. Nobody’s decked him for staring too long, or told him “faggots don’t belong in this town” or any of the fears that still take up space in the back of his mind. As far as LA goes, he’s practically butch. He shouldn’t be using up the time other people could be using to work through their issues. 

\--- 

Tom Chang’s waiting room is painted a pale purple, outfitted with a bunch of potted plants and a stack of wrinkled magazines. It’s small, and private. The seats are comfortable. Richie can’t believe he let himself be talked into this, when basically the foundation of a comedy career is allowing your unresolved issues to fester. 

It turns out the first several sessions are all introductory, where Richie gets into the depth of his daddy issues and his hunger for attention and all the boring shit that makes him the way he is. He talks about the Trashmouth thing and other shit about school. Finally, they can get into his “recent trauma” in Derry. The next couple sessions are a blur. He doesn’t retain the specifics. But they go something like this:

The therapist is like, “All this shit you’re complaining about is just like your dead friend. Did you not notice that?”

Richie says, “What? No. I would have noticed. What are you talking about? Are you making fun of me?” They go back and forth a couple of times. 

The therapist says, “Think about it.”

The next time, he comes in armed with plenty of thoughts about Eddie. It’s not like that’s hard for him to do. It just hurts. 

“Sometimes... I know this sounds crazy. Believe me, I know. I’ve never experienced anything supernatural,” Richie says one session. Lying only a little bit, because he doesn’t need to waste time trying to convince a therapist that evil clowns are real. “It just feels like he’s here. Not back home. I mean, in Derry. But here, I feel like I’m gonna turn around and see his tiny face.” 

Dr. Tom, as he makes Richie call him, is like, “Okay. Let’s talk about that, today. Why are you having so much trouble letting go? How far along do you feel on the path to acceptance?”

Richie has to admit, “I don’t want to accept it.”

“Do you think that maybe there’s an underlying cause? Why does Eddie still feel so present, to you? What is it that makes your memories feel so vivid?”

Because I had a big, gay crush, Richie doesn’t say. I’m so hung up on him I don’t know what to do with myself without him. 

“Could it be ghosts?” he asks instead. 

\---

_ my therapist implied i’m being haunted by eddie, _ Richie texts the group chat. It stays quiet for like three hours. No takers, he thinks with a grim sense of satisfaction. Maybe he’s being selfish and short-sighted. Hell, they all lost Eddie. Intellectually, he knows that. Stan, he knows, is fucking dead too. And _ he’s _not haunting anybody.The logical solution is probably just that he needs to chill. And yet.

Bev’s the first to break the silence. _ that sounds like him, _ she texts. And the woman is a saint, taking time from getting well-fucked and fed grapes in one of Ben’s fancy modern homes to validate Richie’s breakdown.

Mike’s next. _ Have you seen him at all? _

Richie barks one laugh, and then another. `

He gets up for a glass of whiskey, that’s how funny it is. 

No, he hasn’t fucking seen Eddie. Eds, Edward, love of his life, he’d written once on a piece of notebook paper that he burned later on. But maybe their embarrassing fumblings with magic weren’t a complete failure. He can pin all his hopes on the weird feelings he’s been having.

Bill has something to say. Richie swipes the message open. 

_ Are you SURE that’s what they meant _

Richie rolls his eyes and stabs out a response, _ Tom and I have a perfect understanding of each other and if you are less well matched w your therapist _

_ that’s a reflection on you _

_ and not me _

Mike says, _ Should I get a therapist too??? _and the rest of the chat devolves into an argument about the merits of therapy and psychoanalysis. Cool, Richie thinks. So they glossed right over that. At least no one staged an intervention.

He votes no, on Mike getting therapy.

\---

All the bullshit Eddie-talk must get to Richie that night, because he dreams of him. Not even in a sexy way, which is kind of a disappointment. 

He’s sitting on a log in the barrens. It’s shockingly comfortable, like way more comfortable than is reasonable, it doesn’t give him the usual middle aged back protestations he gets in uncomfortable seating, and the light is coming in through the leaves in a dreamy gold-green. 

“Hey, Richie, you fuckface,” Eddie’s saying. His adult voice cuts through the woodsy ambiance. 

“What?” Richie says, more a gasp than a word. Everything he wants is standing in front of him, in a tiny neurotic package back from the dead. 

“I’m _ trying _ to talk to you. Why do you never let me get a fucking word in?” Eddie’s walking towards him, looking exasperated. 

“Your goddamn motor mouth should be able to take care of it yourself,” Richie says. “Anyway, is this about the ghost crack? I’m sorry, really. I know it was in poor taste. If you’re in heaven or whatever, I hope you’re not judging me. This is how I cope and I fucking _ wish _ you were a ghost--” Eddie snaps his fingers at him, looking annoyed.

“You don’t listen. Just.” He sighs, closes his eyes. “ Listen, this time. Go back to Derry, okay?” 

“I don’t want to do that. It reminds me too much of you,” Richie says. He can be honest in dreams because nobody can hold this against him. 

“I need you to do one thing for me,” Eddie says. His arms are folded in front of him.

“What do you need?”

Richie jerks awake, cursing like he’s fourteen years old again. Eddie’s presence felt so sharp and clear. Sure, he’s thought about Eddie a lot, but it never felt like that. Minutes pass before he can process what the fuck happened. The dream doesn’t fade away. It’s like a real memory. 

He considers searching his medicine cabinet for the Ativan from years ago, but he knows he wouldn’t have the luck to step right back into the current of the old dream. It’s fucking gone. That doesn’t stop him from thinking about it all day.

He does “errands” by leaving the house and buying a coffee drink with too much sugar and posting up with his laptop. Dicking around with the pathetic word document that makes up his attempt at writing his own shit isn’t getting him very far. Vox posted an article about the history of Coney Island and it leads him down a rabbit hole that takes him into carnival freakshows, performance, some French guy from the 19th century who was rumored to have eaten a baby, live. Eddie would have hated Tarrere and freaked out completely at his disgusting life story. He would have told Richie he’s gonna get diabetes. 

Before he can think too hard about it, Richie googles “lax flihgts drry maine cheap.” Google knows exactly what the fuck he’s talking about and there’s a round trip flight waiting for him at only a little over a thousand. He doesn’t fuck with economy class anymore after a memorable flight seated next next to a group of college boys who tried to conduct an impromptu interview for their campus newspaper on a six-hour flight. 

\---

Once Richie’s on the plane, he figures it’s safe to text the Losers.

_ yo _ , he texts the group chat. _ i miss that sweet derry air, so i’m booking a flight out to maine. i’m not dead!! _

Hopefully that doesn’t sound like something a dead person would say.

He knows it’s bad, but he turns his phone off. He needs to try to chill and not neurotically rant to every person he knows or let anybody change his mind.

_ I need you to do one thing for me. _It’s not hugely inspiring for comedy, so he just doesn’t mention it.

He takes a Xanax and turns out the lights. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> derry air, geddit??  
more to come!!  
thank you for reading, sincerely


	2. Chapter 2

Richie only turns his phone back on when he lands across the country, in Maine. He doesn’t want to be talked out of this before he even gets there. 

There are 53 texts waiting for him, plus a couple of missed calls that don’t look important.

_ im fine. just seeing the sights, _ he texts the group, and ignores the rest. 

He’s not entirely, truly sure what he’s going to get out of this trip. He does have a few pit stops planned. The anticipation is making him jittery, almost hungry. It’s worse because he doesn’t know where to start. 

Does grief feel like losing your goddamn soul? Does it feel like losing your mind? His grief is made up of all the what-ifs and could-have-beens that any normal adult not traumatized by a literal monster would have been ruminating over for years already by this point. Richie didn’t get to have them until he was forty, and then the potentials were gutted like, a day and a half later. A potential life with Eddie, he thinks he means. He didn’t have time to figure out what he wanted, or what he’d missed the past couple of decades. 

Richie googles “normal grieving process.” Apparently there are a bunch of stages he’s supposed to go through, and that’s what the fuck Tom was always talking about in therapy? Jesus. He needs to learn how to listen better. 

\--------

  
  


It’s really goddamn cold outside in Maine, in the winter, after nearly three decades spent in winters that barely dip below 50 degrees. And the light is dead and soulless and cold, amplifying it. There’s a soupy mix of dead, decaying leaves and mud on the ground, even the sidewalks. Out over the bridge, the windchill subtracts another ten degrees from the temperature. Richie isn’t dressed for it. He’s dressed like a professional clown, as per usual, in an orange leather jacket and red striped shirt that feels scandalously thin in this weather. And isn’t that funny, something to investigate in therapy or something.

So. The bridge. The letters in the wood. Leaving his vulnerable heart out where people can see it. 

“Okay,” Richie says to himself. “Let’s go.”

It takes him a minute to find it, but because Derry’s such a one-horse town, and though it’s in some prime real estate on the bridge, nobody has carved over the initials. R+E, done with a shaky hand on his way home one afternoon. They’re just two letters, and they could be anybody. It still feels like the most subversive thing he’s ever done, including his early-twenties radio show that played mostly GG Allin and The Carpenters, alternating between the two. 

“I did this because I loved him,” he whispers. “I did it because I loved him,” he repeats, at normal speaking volume. He touches the carving. It’s normal wood, and it feels normal under his hand. 

His flaming homosexuality isn’t going to set the woods ablaze, not today. 

His eyes are blurry and he tries to blink the tears away, but then he collapses onto the railing of the bridge and just lets it happen. No one is there to see it. It’s practically not happening at all. Richie lets the tears come in a way he hasn’t since he was limping away from Niebolt house. His shoulders shake and he feels himself let out these high-pitched noises, sucks in wheezy breaths so he can keep on fucking crying. Only the trees and the stupid empty road are here right now, so he can let go without the shame of an audience, even if it was an audience of his best friends. It just fucking hurts, and he doesn’t have to pretend it doesn’t. 

When he’s done, he knows his eyes and mouth and nose are gonna be all telltale red, but he doesn’t care. 

After that, he decides he can go back to the hotel and make a stop in the bar before spending the rest of the day enjoying the marvel of central heating. 

He checks his phone when he gets back to his room all warmed up and bourbon-flushed. 

Bill and Mike have both decided to come to Derry. They aren’t coming together, despite Richie’s initial suspicions. Mike is flying back from Arizona, which Richie feels goddamn guilty about.

_ mike, nooo!, _ he types. _ enjoy the sun and above-zero temperatures _

_ Too late for that. _ Mike texts, ominously. _ I still own my house out there, you know _ That is news to Richie, who assumed he had to sell it to fund his travel. Maybe Bill is sponsoring?

_ mmmkay. when are you coming? i wanna do a little mike hunt at the airport ;) _

_ Shut up, _ Bill says. _ I’m getting there before him. You’ll get both of us. _

_ ok nvm. only interested in mike hunt -ing _

_ Idiot _Bev sends. No travel plans noted, which is relieving for Richie. He doesn’t want to force everybody to come back to the middle of nowhere, right at the start of December. 

Just then, Ben sends a photo of a flight confirmation. Two tickets. 

“Fuck, you guys,” Richie says to himself. He scrolls through Twitter listlessly and turns on the TV to help him fall asleep, so he can be ready for the big Day 2 of Derry Memories.

“Eddie, I hope this is what you fucking wanted from me,” he says, before he drifts off. 

\---

The house probably would have been in his nightmares, if he didn’t have so much other material to work with. 

Richie didn’t go inside very many times. At first, Sonia had tolerated him, but that changed pretty fast once she saw how rude and weird he was, and probably, how close he and Eddie were. So once they hit a certain age, Eddie’s room was really the only part of the house he ever saw the inside of. 

More than his own house, this place brings him back to how it was to be small, thirteen, and ashamed of your entire existence. He remembers it being dark, lit mostly by the blue television in the living room, because that’s usually all he got to see. Sonia couldn’t chase Eddie down and bring him back to the house, but she could berate him and all his friends. She could feed him sugar pills that kept him scared and needy. He still doesn’t know what exactly she said about him when he wasn’t there. Probably something about his dirty clothes and hair. That’s what everybody used to say.

He didn’t learn how to do laundry correctly until he hit like 9th grade, so yeah, his fucking clothes were kind of dirty sometimes. It's hard to figure those things out for yourself.

Was this a bad idea? Richie’s not used to asking the question. Does it feel good? If so, proceed. _ This _feels like fucking shit, but dream-Eddie (is there any other kind?) spent so much time trying to get him over here. 

He wonders what for, if this will be another painful waste of time. He doesn’t really _ want _to examine his memories too closely. Not all of them. For what? He overthought every interaction with Eddie already, as they were happening.

\---

Mike and Bill waited at the airport for Bev and Ben to get there so Richie’d only have to make one trip to pick their sorry asses up. On the ride into town, Bill sits up front with him and the rest of them are squashed into the back, like teenagers. 

When the five of them are deciding where to eat, they all agree it’s important to find somewhere that serves alcohol. That leaves them with fewer options, and by the end of the conversation they end up at the Red Robin’s. The reliable plasticky tables and menu of classic, grotesque American dishes should be comforting. But the manic cheeriness of the place is a little clownishly unnerving. 

After a fortifying sip of his poisonous green Sand In Your Shorts cocktail, Richie tells them he has something important to say. They’re looking at him with this potent mixture of concern, dread and anticipation. 

  
“In case you haven’t seen it by now-- and even if you have, I just wanted to say it. I’m gay, okay?” He doesn’t say the other half of it, and figures he doesn’t really need to. He’s allowed _ some _ privacy. 

Nobody moves and nobody reacts, but at least there’s no laughter. They’re waiting for him.

“Coming here hurt like a bitch and the ending was even worse. So cheers to coming back and picking at the wound.” He slurps down more of his drink. 

“Richie, we love you,” Bev says. Richie winces and nods. Another sip. This could turn into a drinking game pretty easily. His middle-aged liver might not be up to the task. 

“Pace yourself, man. And I say that because, yes, I love you too. I want you to be happy,” says Bill. 

“I’m trying, man. On both counts, I swear. I invited an old friend out to a completely dry vegan restaurant two weeks ago. He thought I joined a cult.”

Ben nods, like he’s considering his words. “You know we care about you. I’ll be there for you, man, no matter what.” 

Mike clears his throat. He senses an opening and takes it, probably to say more depressing shit. But Richie shuts up. 

“I know you were all disappointed,” Mike says. “I’m sorry if the ritual was hard for you guys. But we had to try it. I really thought it could work. Felt like we owed it to him.” 

Richie immediately says, “Hey, Hanlon. I’ll drink to that,” and ignores Bill’s look at him. Beverly giggles, bless her. That’s why they were always partners in crime. 

They order a second round of drinks, and the mood gets a little less funereal. 

Bill always loved his speeches and Richie can physically feel him gearing up to give one. He keeps it short, though. He dedicates their drinks to Stan, and Eddie, and then Adrian Mellon. 

Richie feels a little bit of hot shame and nausea at hearing Adrian’s name. People like him and Adrian still aren’t welcome in Derry. That’s how he was supposed to end up, too.

Then he thinks of Mike, guiltily. He’s not the only one who didn’t belong. And what about Bev? The whole town knew something was wrong at home, for her, and instead of sympathy they gave her endless shit for it. Ben’s body made him a target, and he can’t think of a single person who didn’t take the chance to mimic Bill’s stutter. 

It’s not all the same, of course. They’re all fucked up differently. But he’s not alone. 

“Man, fuck small town America,” Richie says. “I’m glad we blew their fuckin’ minds, back in the day. Cheers to the biggest freaks to come out of this place!” 

\---

That night, Richie’s half-drunk, settling into the dusty Derry Inn again, just like old times. During that short window of time when Eddie was still alive and he still remembered him and they were both adults. 

Beverly and Ben are shacked up in the same room, trying to pretend it’s unremarkable. Mostly he’s happy for them. It’s also a little bit disgusting to Richie, and he hates that it grosses him out at all, but it does. It’s petty and stupid, like a lot of his feelings. He feels like an idiot and turns the TV on. That always sends him straight to sleep. 

Eddie’s in his dream again. His big brown eyes look so sad, something that freaked Richie out when he saw them for the first time in his adult body. He didn’t grow out of them. 

“It’s so weird, being inside you,” Eddie starts out.

Richie’s can feel himself making such a terrible face. “Uh?”

“You’re my vessel, dipshit. You guys are so bad at magic.” 

“What am I supposed to do about that? if this isn’t just wishful dreaming.”

Eddie shrugs, but with him it’s a full-body motion. 

“Hey, can I touch you?”

“Try it.”

He puts his hands on Eddie’s shoulders, feeling the sinews and bone. 

“Holy shit,” Richie marvels. “Hey, lemme see...” He drags his hand down along the line of Eddie’s arms, petite but definitely representing the benefits of a regular gym schedule. “God damn it. You had to grow up and get fit, didn’t you?” 

“Focus, asshole. You gotta do something about this situation. This fucking sucks, I hate Los Angeles. And Derry. Help me come back so I can kick your ass for real.” He’s just letting Richie feel him up, which is the fakest part of this dream. Jesus.

“I hate LA too,” Richie says absently, his attention still focused on Eddie’s warm body in his hands. He lets Eddie lead him to the quarry. It’s sunny and warm. 

Richie wakes up in his dingy-ass hotel bed, definitely not in LA but feeling like he’s on fire, pressing his hand between his legs. He’s not really thinking clearly. He fumbles his pajama pants down and wraps a hand around himself, breathing raggedly, pushing his heels into the bed. He can’t stop thinking about the feel of Eddie’s compact body in his arms, his tensed lean muscles. 

He strokes dry, has to wince at the friction but he can’t stop and also, spitting’s kind of gross. He’s whispering, pleading to the fucking ghost in his dreams, _ Jesus, oh my fucking god, fuck me fuck me fuck. _He comes like that, sweaty and gasping, all on his pajama shirt. 

It’s not a high point for him. In fact, it feels kind of scummy. He feels like the kind of guy he pretends to be for his routine. Jerking off to your dead friend feels more like a bit than something he would do in real life. He hightails it to the showers, scrubbing his face extra hard.

The rest of the day passes pretty fast. They all meet up at the library, but he takes the time to pick up breakfast first. He tries eating some scalding hash browns in his flashy rental car in the parking lot and burns the shit out of his tongue. The next bite tastes like oily cardboard, so he ends up throwing the bag in the trash.

One he gets there, he doesn’t have to do much, because sitting in one place and focusing on tiny lines of text is not his bag. No one’s going to make him do it, not when Ben and Bill and Mike are all extremely eager to stick their noses into every book in sight. Bev helps them organize the stacks of books, but Richie notices she’s not really scouring the library archives either. 

He can’t leave, though, because he’s the reason they’re there at all. They keep asking him questions that he doesn’t have any good answer to. All he has are the dreams. He doesn’t know what Eddie wants from him, or what the desired outcome even is. His secret fear, that he won’t say out loud or even think directly, is that Eddie doesn’t want to come back. 

“Richie, have you seen a lot of birds lately?” Ben asks him. 

“You sound like Stan,” Richie says reflexively. Shit. He can only process one dead childhood friend at a time. His emotional responses are like fucked clockwork and he immediately starts to tear up. “Oh my god,” he says. “Fuck. Uh, no, no birds. That I’ve noticed. Because I’m not a fucking nerd like you guys.” 

The rest of them graciously ignore this little outburst. He’s still crying when Bill asks, “Okay, what about food. How have you been eating lately?”

“Way too healthy for my taste,” Richie says. “Half the time I can’t order what I want at a restaurant. I like, black out. I managed to get through a McDonalds this morning and when I tried to eat my hashbrowns I burned the shit out of my mouth. I had to throw them away.” 

“So no raw meat or rare burgers,” Mike says. 

“Definitely not.” 

It goes on like that.

\---

It takes him until the next night to work up the courage to ask. They’re all eating dinner together, and it has a bit of a collegiate feel. Not just because of the books, but because of spending all his waking hours with the same small group of people. Adults don’t do that unless they’re in a cult or a startup or something else equally sinister. A family?

“Hey Mike, what’s a vessel?”

“You want the dictionary definition, or is this in one of the books we looked at today?” 

“Yeah, like in one of those books. if a person is a vessel... what does that mean?”

“It means they’re carrying something important inside them. Could be a lot of things. What’d the book say?”

“I honestly don’t remember, man. It just stood out to me. That would be pretty sweet, right? Being an occult pinata. Full of mysteries, literally. Just bash me right open.” 

Mike rolls his eyes. “The next time you see something like that, though, just show it to me. Text me a picture or something. Make full use of the technology around you, Rich.” 

  
  


\---

Richie meets them in the lobby of the Derry Inn, which might be Derry’s only hotel-type place. He says, “Guys, Eddie keeps trying to talk to me.” He rests his head in his arms so he doesn’t have to look at them. 

But then Ben asks him, “Well, what’d he have to say?”

So that’s that, then. Everybody’s all in. 

Mike’s trying to get him to take some of the fucked up drugs he dosed Bill with. Like, Richie can appreciate a good time, but he’s not trying to lose his entire mind anymore. He’s too old for shit like that.

“There has to be another way to get this shit to work. I’m not buying that hallucination is the key to our dear Eddie’s heart. Let’s try something else.” 

Mike sighs. “Jesus, Richie, we don’t have that many options. But okay. I can try looking into it. Whatever it is, it probably won’t be very nice.” 

None of them are saying it, but it’s hanging heavy in the air: Richie’s so dense and insensitive that it’s hard to believe he’s conduit material at all. Why couldn’t Eddie have chosen a Pisces like Ben?

“Mike, what the fuck do we do? I’m seriously worried I’ll never be able to wholeheartedly enjoy junk food again.”

“I’m working on that.”

Mike and Bill spend the night at Mike’s old house to get more information. Whatever the fuck that means. Presumably it’s because they have the most experience doing research in a room full of dusty old books. 

By noon the next day, they have something for Richie to try. 

“So Eddie chose you, right? To talk to, to attach to, whatever.”

“I guess so. That’s what it seems like. Yes.” 

“Yeah. So you’re the key to bringing him back, and you have to be part of whatever it is we do.” 

“Don’t tell me I have to burn something else, now,” Richie mutters. It’s wet and cold and _ Maine _ all over the place, here. How is he ever going to get a lighter to work outdoors? 

“You know how you’ve been acting all weird and fucked up, but in a different way than usual?” Bill asks.

“Is this about my salad habit?”

“It’s about your sudden overpowering opinions on vitamin c supplements and juice fasting. Anyway, that’s probably all Eddie trying to make you do what he wants.”

And wouldn’t that take the cake? Eddie’s so fully the focus of Richie’s attention whenever they’re in the same room that he sucked Eddie’s soul into him like that box from Ghostbusters.

“It’s like a kidney donation,” Bill tells him. “We have to separate Eddie from the rest of your soul.” 

“How do we know he’s... attached?”

“He’s making decisions about what you do with yourself and what you eat. There’s probably other things you haven’t even noticed, Richie. He’s practically possessing you. Eddie’s definitely attached there,” Mike says, tapping Richie’s chest lightly. It feels nice, both to be touched and to think of Eddie clinging to him like a barnacle. 

“And you have to tear him outta there, for the miracle of life.” Richie’s picturing caesarean sections and blood and Eddie’s corpse.

It sounds messy and nasty but at least Richie doesn’t have to do anything except lie back and let other people worry about harming his immortal soul. 

“Fuck. Fuck, okay, and what are the spiritual complications? Because kidney donations come with all kinds of weird and terrifying side effects, you guys. I just want to know.” He’s wringing his hands a little. 

“You have to rest up. Spiritually, it says. To let yourself heal.” Mike’s a pro at delivering bad news. 

“And spiritual rest entails.... what, what would that look like in a real person’s life?” 

Mike’s flipping through pages but he doesn’t have an answer.

“No watching documentaries? Refusing to talk about politics with anyone at all? Being neither nice nor a dick?” Richie spitballs in a muffled voice, his head in his hands.

“It doesn’t say, man,” Mike says. 

“Okay, okay. I mean, I can do that, I think, whatever it means. I have to. It’s our Eddie. Make the cut, Dr. Hanlon.” He mimes a snipping motion. 

Ben winces, and Richie laughs. He’d thought about a vasectomy, but he stopped sleeping with women by the time he hit his thirties, and by then it was like, why bother? With men, it wasn’t usually an issue. 

After dinner, they get him good and wasted before dropping him off in his room, making sure he’s safely cloistered away for the night.

\---

Richie thinks maybe his soul is already fucked, thanks to a long list of the stupid bullshit his grimy life has entailed. Examples: from prolonged exposure to weird magic, from all the money in his bank account, from his fuck-and-run style attempts at relationships, from making people laugh at idiotic jokes that aren’t even his own. Pennywise didn’t get to literally devour him, sure. But fear has been eating away at him since the day he was born. He doesn’t know how not to be afraid. What is he supposed to do with himself now?

He slaps his own face, drumming his hands on it. He has to assume that’s what left in him will be enough. It’s all he has to work with. 

Anyway, Eddie thinks he’s good enough. Eddie never really had the best judgment when it came to Richie, though. _ Richie, hold my ice cream for a second. No, don’t fucking eat it! _ and _ You can’t come over anymore, my mom will freak. Please don’t get me in trouble _ and _ Hey Rich, you’re not gonna pull away from the curb while I’m loading my bike into the car again, are you? _ and _ Richie, Richie, look at me, I think I really killed It this time. _

He’s stoned as hell. It was supposed to keep him away from any big feelings. So much for that. The gaudy wallpaper on the hotel walls is mocking him. He spends a little while super paranoid, jumping at every noise he hears and latching onto them, before he chills out and is able to shut his brain down. 

The pizza place down the street sounds its siren call, and Richie spends like fifteen minutes trying to find his wallet and get himself looking presentable. Once he sits down to pull on his shoes, he collapses back onto the bed. It’s so warm and soft that he closes his eyes and spreads his arms out against the comforter. 

When Richie wakes up the next morning, his middle-aged back feels stiff because of the weird, Jesus-y pose he slept in. Normally he doesn’t sleep spread out like that. He curls up tight instead. 

\---

They take Richie down to the Barrens. Really, they all walk together, but to Richie it feels like being taken somewhere. He wants to do it, he does, but the ceremony of it feels like he’s about to be the victim of a violent crime. A low-hanging branch scrapes the top of his head.

Richie’s still a little bit groggy from the weed because he’s a lightweight now. Mike is dressed up real nice, in clothes he wouldn’t have suspected were necessary for a small town librarian to own but whatever. A nice suit with satiny lapels. 

The leaves are swept away from one area of the grass and there’s a nice, fleecy blanket spread there. Ben gestures to it and Richie nods, lying down. It’s not clear why they’ve all given up on words now, but it feels like the right thing to do. 

“Close your eyes, Richie.” He closes them. Somebody covers him up with another blanket. This one’s crocheted, and he wonders whose grandmother made it. Mike, Ben, Bill and Beverly are circling around him. It makes a soft, rustling noise that’s lulling him into something like sleep. Mike speaks out, and Bill follows. Beverly comes next, and Ben is last. Richie Trashmouth doesn’t have to say a thing. 

Even with his eyes closed, the light is obvious. He can’t quite see it but he can feel it. Somebody gasps. Something light and web-like settles over Richie’s face, shrouding the last exposed part of his body. Richie’s chest cavity is like, fucking wide open. Fully obvious to everybody present. Hopefully they like it.

This goes on for a while. Richie tries not to be too present, because maybe that’ll fuck this up. Or it’ll hurt. Mike’s just gonna clip off the malevolent growth of Eddie’s attachment and then they can move on with their lives.

Someone touches his forehead gently. 

“Hey, Richie?” Bev’s shaking his shoulder. “Hey. How was it?”

“Soulsplitting,” Richie mutters. “Did it work? What even was the goal? What happened today?” 

“_ Something _ fucking happened.” Bill says. 

“Yeah, that was pretty spectacular,” Ben says.

Bev chimes in with, “You should have seen it, it was fucking beautiful. No one would have guessed it came from you.”

“Bathed in the universe’s light,” Mike says. “That’s a quote. From the book.”

“Oh, shit,” Richie groans. “Where is he?”

Ben slings his arm over his shoulder, and Bev takes the other side even though Richie is the gangliest scarecrow. 

“Let’s reconvene at the library,” Bill says. 

“Oooh, big word,” Richie says as he’s loaded into a backseat somewhere. And then, “Hey guys, this feels like a prom night gone wrong.”

\---

There’s a wet set of footprints on the asphalt.

They’re hard to see, because the rest of the asphalt? Also wet. But the footprints stand out, slender feet and compact steps, not too far apart. A comfortable pace, not running. 

Richie sees that they start at the library door. He stumbles to his feet, ignores the twinge of pain he feels. He chases after them. He doesn’t have to go far. A man stands out in the road by one of those big, ancient trees. 

“Holy fuck,” Richie says, and he falls to his goddamn knees before Eddie Kraspbak, in the most honest physical expression of how he’s felt seeing Eddie every time since he was maybe thirteen. “Are you...” 

“I’m cold,” Eddie says. He’s still in his stained hoodie, but he’s solid underneath it. The torn front reveals a stretch of pale, smooth skin instead of a vicious hole. Richie presses his forehead to his stomach and cries. It’s different from his hopeless wailing out on the bridge. It’s the end of an era, the ultimate closure. It doesn’t even matter what happens to him from here, it’s all good. Eddie’s back on Earth where he belongs. 

Eddie’s hands find their way to his hair. Richie shivers under his touch; his fingers are like icicles. 

“Jesus, I thought I’d never see you again,” he says, muffled. “Thought I was losing it.” 

“I’m here.” Eddie says. And he is. He’s here, touching Richie, smelling like damp earth and feeling completely frozen.

“Oh, shit,” Richie says, pulling his face away from Eddie’s front. “We have to get you into a hot shower or something. Where is everyone, hold on...” He looks around to find the rest of them watching from the library doorway.

“Hey, can you guys help me get him back?” he says.

Mike and Ben are on it, guiding Eddie gently into one of their cars and Richie slides into the passenger’s seat and before long they’re rushing up the stairs, flinging open the door to Richie’s room (who else) and thank god, the inn is as empty as usual, and Richie wonders which Derry founding family is draining their savings keeping this place open and operational as he sits on his bed next to the open bathroom door where Ben is stripping Eddie down gently and helping him into a hot bath. 

Mike sits on the other side next to Richie, watching him. The others are still on their way over. Bill must be a slow driver. 

When Bill arrives with Bev, the two of them immediately start hammering on Richie’s door. Nobody asked where they would be, they just assumed. Bev runs into the bathroom, where Eddie’ wrapped in a towel, still warming up in the steam. Bill crowds his way in too, and so does Mike, and they’re all hugging him, patting his head. Richie can’t bring himself to move and worries about his legs giving out if he tries to get up. He’s been doing a lot of this lately, just sitting and watching. 

  
  
  


\---

Eddie’s stretched out in Richie’s bed, recovering from the shock. 

“I don’t know how I’m gonna get around New fucking York City like this,” he says quietly. 

“I mean, if it’s light nursing you need, you could always come to LA,” he says, heart fucking pounding in his chest. He hopes his voice didn’t waver like he thinks it might have. “Just lie down in the back of the car while I drive you around. No germy subways.” 

“That’s one possibility.” Eddie says, staring at the ceiling. Richie puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Maybe you should just go to sleep.” 

Eddie’s already drifting off, but when he hears that he shoots up and glares at Richie. 

“Don’t tell me what to do, Rich.” Richie smiles at him dopily. “You should sleep too. Does it hurt?”

“You mean, from when I fell from heaven?”

“No, the thing they did to you.”

“It doesn’t. It feels weird? Like when your skin is rubbed raw. But it doesn’t hurt. You were really fucking with me, man.”

“I bet you’re in better health after that than you have been in years.”

“Probably. But fucking, what about you? Are you okay? Is your heart beating? What in the fuck are we gonna do with you?” 

Eddie looks down at himself and says, “I guess I feel pretty okay. Just cold. I mean, look at me! All my blood and guts are inside, thank fuck.”

Ben knows how to take a pulse and somebody goes out and buys a thermometer and together they can do some very basic testing that shows Eddie is probably physically living. The closest hospital is where Eddie was declared dead, so they all agree to avoid it as much as possible. 

\---

Richie asks, “So what was your deal?”

“What was my deal, Richie?” Eddie’s closing the boring financial magazine he’d been flipping through. 

“What was your deal, Eddie. Like, could you watch me shower? Did you see when I was sleeping and know when I was awake? I need details, por favor.”

“I was there sometimes.” Eddie shrugged. “I was pretty out of it. All confused and tortured and shit. I didn’t expect you guys to actually be able to do something.” 

“So wait, you were just trying to get me to do something that you thought I would fail at?”

“Yeah.” 

Richie shakes his head.

“Stop changing the subject. What the fuck did you see, Spaghetti?” Hopefully not him crying his heart out in the open air, out on the bridge.

“A little of this, a little of that. I was expecting this conversation to go more, _ I’m so glad to see you, Eddie. The afterlife must have been rough. _ Clearly my expectations were off.” 

“We already had that conversation,” says Richie. “This one’s different.”

Eddie shrugs. “I swear, I was not focused on your sweating naked form. I was too busy having existential, theological dread and fear for my future.” 

Richie tries not to fixate on Eddie talking about him naked, but it’s all he thinks about on a loop in his head while he’s telling Bill stupid jokes and looking at Mike’s travel plans for the next year. 

Now that their closets have been mostly emptied of skeletons, the sheer amount of luck and good fortune in the room seems ridiculous. Ben and Bev have shacked up, Bill’s back to writing award-winning hits, Mike is living his life the way he never could before. Richie has thrown away a lot of goodwill and opportunities, but he’s still a household name among fans of mediocre comedy. 

\---

Later, when they’re alone, Eddie sighs and breaks the silence. 

“So you’re not gonna wanna hear this.”

“That’s the worst thing you could possibly hear from your recently resurrected best friend,” Richie says, flopping back on the bed. 

“I saw you jerking off about me,” he says. Deadpan, almost like it doesn’t matter to him. Richie knows he’s got to be freaking out on some level, though. 

“.....Okay. Is that what you think you saw?” Richie says desperately. 

“I had a very intimate view of this shit, okay, I know what fucking happened.” 

“Yeah? That’s a hell of an assumption.”

“You came so fucking fast, bro. And you like, whimpered.” Eddie still doesn’t sound outraged. He sounds more casual than Richie has ever heard him, which has got to be some kind of trick.

“So what do you want from me?” Richie snaps. “Sorry you saw me fucking jacking off but you weren’t exactly invited to watch, so I think I’m the one who should be mad here.” 

“You came _ so _fast,” Eddie says again, shaking his head. And god, it’s like he never died at all, because he’s here again being an instigative asshole. He keeps talking about Richie’s dick like it’s something to marvel at, though. 

“Well. What else did you think?” Richie says, cupping himself meaningfully. It’s not a joke. It could be, he could play it off as one, but it really isn’t. 

“It was kind of anticlimactic to finally see your dick after years of listening to you joke about it,” Eddie says, but his eyes are tracking Richie’s movements. They’re focused below the belt. Richie’s moving his hand just a little, pressing down hard so he has enough sensation to focus on to get hard. 

“Okay, get your hand out of the way,” Eddie says, jerking his head. “I’ve waited long enough. Don’t be such a goddamn tease.” 

Richie’s dick is hard and heavy under his loose jeans. He’s pulling the material tight so Eddie can kind of see it, lying there thick and waiting.

“When the fuck did you buy those, Rich, the 90s? Just. Unzip.” Eddie sounds like he’s struggling to stay composed. 

He can’t help it, he _ likes _ being bossed around a little bit. So he’s lying on a tacky hotel bed, Eddie on the other side a safe distance away, tugging down the zipper on his own jeans. Today, like always, he’s wearing boxers, baggy thin cotton in novelty patterns. He knows it’s not exactly going to be revealing. After he lowers his fly, his dick flies out like a striped cotton circus tent and he leans back against the headboard, arms folded behind his head. 

Eddie’s glaring at him, but he’s still unmistakably hot under the collar. His skin has this pink tinge that’s really doing it for Richie.

“Jesus, do those underwear even stay up or do you keep them tied around your waist with a shoelace? Can I,” he adds, hungrily. 

“Can you what?” 

“Can I... take them off you.” 

“Go for it.” Eddie has to scoot over closer, a lot closer, to hook his cold hands into Richie’s ridiculous underwear and pull them down. 

Richie has to lift his ass for them to really come down, and the strangeness of the moment forces him to abandon his mock-casual lean against the headboard. Instead, he’s gripping at the scratchy comforter, watching Eddie’s face laser-focused on his crotch. It’s gratifying. His actual dick is out in the air, waving its pink tip. Eddie looks at it and then at his face, then back to it. 

Eddie’s thin hand is reaching for it before Richie gets a read on the situation, and the wrap of heat and pressure is enough to draw a gasp from him. Eddie looks pleased, smug. 

“Yeah? That right, Trashmouth?” 

“Um, yeah, yeah Eds.” For a few blessed moments, Richie’s internal monologue grinds to a halt and he doesn’t have anything to say besides, _ more _ or _ touch me again _ or _ fuck _. He keeps his mouth shut, though. 

“Yeah, as in, that’s good?”

“Really good,” Richie breathes. Eddie strokes down, squeezing at sensitive skin and it’s going to drive Richie genuinely crazy. He circles his hand around the base.

“I wonder if I could fit it in my mouth,” Eddie’s saying. 

Oh, god.

“Try it,” Richie says. “If nothing else I’m willing to give you an A for effort.”

Eddie inches closer, staring at Richie all the while. Dips his head and gives the lightest, most tentative lick he’s ever felt. It’s almost nothing, but the barely-thereness fits right in with Richie’s lifelong hyperawareness of every touch from him. It’s so sexy he leans back and loses track of the rest of his body, anything that’s not being tentatively licked. 

Slowly, Eddie laps over more of the head, his tongue softly curving to cover it. He wraps his lips around it all at once, right under the ridge, and Richie hisses, nonsensically, “Oh fuck. Eddie, why.” 

Just as suddenly, Eddie pulls off, goes, “What?”

Richie groans and tugs down at his hair, trying to pull him back into the desired direction, which is down onto his dick. “You’re. You’re killing me.”

Rolling his eyes, Eddie sucks it back in. Just the tip, the sensitive head wrapped in warmth and fucking slick pressure. He stops again, gazes up at Richie from under his lashes and says, “I don’t know if I can take any more.” Fixes him with a look so pure and picture perfect that he sees right through it as the evil act it is. 

“God, Eds, get back down there, _ please _,” he says. “Unless you want me to come on your face.”

“Fuck no, you’re not doing that,” Eddie says. He scowls a little but goes back down, to suck at the head some more. 

“Thought you wanted to see how much you could take,” Richie says. “There’s like, six more inches for you to try.” It comes out all wheezy and uneven and he feels a little like a fool until Eddie’s eyes flicker up at him, annoyed, and he sinks down just a little further. Then he pulls back, lets the tip slip out of his mouth, then slides it back in like he’s kissing it. 

“Shit, shit, Eddie. Yeah, suck it, I really want you to.”

He’s taking less than half of Richie’s dick, still, but he feels like he could come like this. Eddie’s mouth is tight around his sensitive head and it feels like all the blood in his body is pooled at his crotch and it’s so good he can’t think at all. His dick is so hard, throbbing inside Eddie’s mouth. 

“If you suck any harder, move any more, I’ll come,” Richie warns. He feels like he might go off at any minute, totally out of sync and freaked out. 

Eddie takes the bait, sucks hard and long, slides down a few millimeters, noisy and wet, then bobs his head, then back up and off completely. He’s panting, taking heavy, uneven breaths and there’s some color in his face and his lips are shiny and pink. Mouth slack. 

The hand he has around Richie’s cock tightens and then he’s jacking him off, sliding up and down with his spit still shiny and Richie comes hard, with a sound like he’s been kicked. It’s so much. Eddie strokes him as he comes all over his own stomach, keeps going a second or two too long and Richie has to shove him off. He turns his focus to the ceiling, has to keep from welling up like an insane person. 

“Fuuuuuck,” he says. Eddie’s turned on his side, looking at him. 

“So now you really could rate my dick, if you had to.” And that’s definitely the wrong thing to say, but he doesn’t know how to make it better. “I mean, that was so hot and I’m _ so _ covered in cum. Thanks, Eddie.” 

Eddie shrugs, but Richie knows that smug look very well. 

“Any time.”

Fuck if that’s not perfectly designed for Richie to obsess over, and it’s enough of a statement that he’s prepared to ask follow-up questions, but Eddie really is asleep this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy fuckin holidays~


End file.
